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Ranting and raving and throwing out desperate, crazy ideas on how to find Garrett is usually my department.
Before this happened, I’d spent years keeping my mouth shut at daily security briefings—this stuff was always Garrett’s job—but that isn’t an option anymore. Besides, I’m as anxious as my father to get an answer about my brother’s disappearance.
“I think what my father means, gentlemen, is that we’re going crazy here. My brother is missing and we don’t know if he’s injured, if he’s dead—” My voice breaks a little on the last word and I stop for a moment. Clear my throat. Take a sip of water. And pretend that I’m talking about someone—anyone—else besides my twin brother and best friend. “It’s obviously a matter of utmost security that we find out who is responsible so that we can—”
“We need to know who to punish for this!” my father’s voice booms out, his fist once again striking the table. “This has gone on too long already and we look weak in the international community. Foolish. The Crown Prince of Wildemar has disappeared and not only do we not know where to look for him, we don’t know who’s to blame for this, or who to punish for it. If this continues, we’ll lose our standing in the world and that I will not tolerate.”
The words hit deep. Of course that’s what my father is worried about. Of course that’s what he cares about. Not Garrett—not what’s happening to him—but how our country looks to others.
I want to hate him for it, want to tell him just how heartless I think he is. But he’s right, and I know it. I hate that I know it, but I do. As does every other person in this room.
We’re not a normal family and this isn’t just a normal kidnapping (as if there is such a thing). We’re the ruling family of the most influential constitutional monarchy in the world and it’s our responsibility and it’s our duty—to Wildemar and the world—to ensure that we do whatever is necessary to keep it safe. And if that includes a proportional response (again, as if there is such a thing) for the kidnapping of our crown prince, then that is what we have to do.
And while I can’t blame my father for his pragmatism and concern for our country when it’s my job to understand it better than anyone else, I sure as hell can hate the truth behind his words. Can hate myself even more for understanding it.
Pierre Sandoval, director of the National Security Committee exchanges another look with Jean-Luc Bollinger, the head of the BI, our main intelligence agency. Several long seconds pass as the king—my father—and I look back and forth between the two, waiting for we’re not sure what.
I just want to know where my brother is, just want to know how to get to him. Everyone tells me I need to prepare for the fact that he’s already dead—hell, logic demands that I acknowledge that’s probably the case.
But neither logic nor these heads of intelligence agencies understand what it is to be a twin. They don’t understand that no matter how afraid I am that Garrett is dead, there’s a part of me that’s sure that he isn’t. A part of me that is certain that I would know, that I would feel it deep inside if my brother—my twin—was dead.
“What?” I finally demand when the silence gets to be too much. “What aren’t you telling us?”
Pierre reaches reluctantly for the tablet in front of him. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he addresses my father. “We don’t have a solid lead at this point—which is why we haven’t mentioned anything about this yet—but we have managed to uncover a witness who might have interacted with one of Prince Garrett’s attackers on the day he was taken.”
“Might have?” I demand, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Or did?”
“We don’t know yet,” Pierre reiterates. “We’re trying to verify the lead, as well as track down the man she’s referring to.”
“Who is she?” my father asks in measured syllables, the fury of earlier completely contained now—except for the fire raging behind his eyes.
“She’s a barista in a coffee shop about three blocks from where Prince Garrett was taken.”
“Why didn’t you find her in your original canvassing? Or the subsequent ones?” My father’s face looks carved from stone.
“We missed her because she only worked the first two hours of her shift—then got an emergency call from a hospital in Lisieux about her father having a heart attack. She was home for three weeks with him, which is why we didn’t pick her up in the additional canvasses we did of the neighborhood. Her coworkers didn’t think it was important to mention that she’d been working the morning shift, so—”
“How did you find her now?” I demand. “After three months? Did she come to you? And if she did, don’t you find that suspicious?”
“We were at a dead end with the other arms of the investigation, so we started back at the beginning, just to see if we could get something new. We sent agents back in to canvass again, to try to jog memories. It’s always a risk, because the longer Prince Garrett is missing the more people might manufacture evidence in their own heads about seeing his assailants. The entire country—and much of the world—is swept up in the story. Faulty residual memories come as part and parcel of that.”
“And yet you believe this girl?”
“That’s why I was hesitant to bring it up. We don’t know if she checks out yet. We’ve questioned her closely, have verified her story, but we’re not done vetting her.”
“When will you be done vetting her?” I feel like I’ll explode if I try to sit still any longer, so I push back from the table. Start to pace. “This should be your top priority!”
“Believe me, it is, Your Highness. As is following up on the information she gave us.” Jean-Luc reaches for his tablet, swipes across it a few times. Seconds later, a sketch shows up on the smartboard mounted on the conference room’s back wall.
“This is the best we were able to get out of her working with a forensic artist. It’s been three months. Still, we’re running it against all the security footage that we took from the area, covering the days before and after the attack—including from the coffee shop where she works. So far, nothing has, but we’ve still got a lot of footage to sort through.”
“And Interpol?” my father asks. “Have you run the sketch through their facial recognition program? And the FBI’s?”
“Again, we’re in the process of doing all of that,” Pierre assures him. “We just got this information a few hours ago and we’re putting everything we’ve got behind it.”
“What makes you think this guy has something to do with Garrett’s disappearance?” I demand, staring at the sketch of a fairly average-looking man.
“The witness mentioned that he had a very unique tattoo.” Jean-Luc swipes at his tablet again and this time a picture of a dark, frankly disturbing tattoo takes the place of the sketch on the smartboard.
